At the end of a long, grueling year in my life, I failed the qualifying examination for my doctorate. Twice.
In many PhD programs, there is a qualifying exam—often referred to as the “comprehensive exam” or “Advancement to Candidacy Exam”—and it is a pivotal milestone. It is designed to assess whether a student has mastered the foundational knowledge and research skills necessary to move forward with their dissertation. Our department’s exam is a grueling 36 hours. Passing this exam marks the transition from being a doctoral student to a doctoral candidate. For many, it is one of the most difficult and high-stakes challenges in a PhD journey. Failing can mean dismissal from the program, ending years of hard work in an instant.
I had already earned a master’s degree in my specialty, so I knew the level of work and discipline required for graduate study. But a PhD is different. The expectations placed on doctoral students are unrelenting. We’re supposed to be fully immersed in our field—constantly reading, researching, thinking critically at all times. No one explicitly says we have to live and breathe academia, but let’s be honest: there’s an unspoken obligation to do just that. If something interferes with our PhD progress, it’s often met with the silent assumption that we simply don’t have other responsibilities—no families to care for, no financial stress, no personal crises tugging at the edges of our focus.
But the reality is, we do. And for women—especially women of color, first-gen students, and those from non-traditional paths—the pressure runs even deeper. We have to prove we belong. Prove we’re just as capable as our male peers. Prove we can carry the full weight of academia while also holding it together in all the other spaces we occupy.
I took the first exam in the summer of 2023 alongside my cohort. When I failed, I was devastated, but I wasn’t entirely alone—others had struggled too. I was given a second chance to retake it in December, and by then, my peers and professors assumed I would pass. I had completed all my coursework with no academic issues. I had already spent two-and-a-half years sacrificing for this program: leaving my home in Texas, giving up financial stability, and forgoing major life decisions like starting a family or laying down roots. This PhD was my full-time job, my entire world. Failing the first time was a blow, but failing a second time felt like losing my livelihood and my sense of self.
Failing twice meant immediate dismissal from the program. I thought seriously about giving up, and each time I did, it broke my heart.
I met with the Doctoral Program Director, who told me that my time in the program was over. I could not accept that. I had to find a way to keep going.
When I first considered appealing my exam decision, I was told it wasn’t even an option. Still, I started researching anyway, determined to find a way forward. I reached out to faculty members I believed would support me, spoke with my cohort, consulted the ombudsman, and even contacted the registrar, who told me I could appeal the department’s decision. I submitted my appeal April 6th, 2024. For the next thirty days, I lived in limbo. Then, on May 6, at exactly 2:11 P.M., a verdict was delivered to my inbox. I was permitted to retake the exam, with caveats of stipulations. I would take the exam a third time, this time with the cohort below me. If I wanted to pass, I had to make my entire life about the exam. I cut out every non-essential part of my life. No socializing, no downtime, no personal distractions. I scheduled my days with militant precision: three-hour study group sessions, one-on-one meetings with tutors, weekly check-ins with professors. I even withdrew from people who cared about me because I couldn’t afford the mental space for anything but the exam.
I took the exam a third time in July 2024. I passed and scored exceptionally. Now I am working on my dissertation and moving on.
Looking back, I realize how all-consuming higher education can be. As much as I tried to let it consume me, my year of the exams was never just about the test. During those twelve months, I was balancing service obligations, personal trials, and the heartbreaking loss of my grandfather- my most loyal supporter. I battled insecurities about my weight and appearance, which only deepened under the stress. I struggled to maintain my relationships—with my parents, grandparents, siblings, friends, and in my role as an aunt. Even my faith felt distant.
There were days I barely recognized myself—physically, mentally, emotionally. In many ways, that year felt like the world was unraveling.
I’m sharing this because sometimes, life just happens—and that’s okay. We don’t fall short because we’re incapable or unworthy. I didn’t fail because I wasn’t smart enough. I failed because, at that point in time, life was overwhelming.
My struggles didn’t define my intelligence, my potential, or my future.
And neither do yours.
